Punchdrunk Lovesick Singalong
by teethlikedog
Summary: They time how long it takes. [JackIanto]


Coda to "They Keep Killing Suzie", and therefore spoilerful up to that point. Not quite canon-compliant, but the lightheartedness of That Bit At The End jarred me in comparison to Ianto's state of mind during "Greeks Bearing Gifts". Anyhow, as there's a Torchwood section now, decided I might as well post this.

**Punchdrunk Lovesick Singalong  
or: four things Jack and Ianto used a stopwatch for, and one thing they didn't**

1.

Ianto lines up shot glasses on Jack's desk, neat rows because it's Ianto, like little glass soldiers standing to attention. And because it's Jack, the whiskey he pours into them is a particularly good twelve year old scotch, and he's not too concerned about it splashing out onto the desk, though Ianto spares a pained look for the polished veneer.

And because they've just put Suzie in the morgue again, they set the stopwatch on the table and time how long it takes to knock back all the whiskey in all the shot glasses. Jack wins, of course - wins twice, in fact, downing a second round while Ianto's still working through the first. But then Jack always wins, always wins and never forgets, no matter how much whiskey he pours down his throat. Ianto clicks off the stopwatch and admits defeat, and Jack celebrates his victory with another drink.

At least he knows he won't get alcohol poisoning. Not for long, anyway.

2.

Perhaps it's a little weird, timing how long Ianto spends in the bathroom, but Jack's just being concerned. Just wondering whether the poor guy's taking a piss or vomiting his guts out; he might have lost, but he _did_ drink an awful lot. He's a good boss, after all, and it wouldn't do to let one of his staff drown in the toilet or end up face-down in a pool of his own stomach contents. It would look bad on the permanent records.

Luckily Ianto's back within three minutes, none the worse for wear. So Jack won't have to come up with another euphemistic cause of death for a colleague tonight; what a relief. He smiles at his own joke, but Ianto isn't smiling. Ianto is just watching him.

3.

"Sometimes I want to kill you," Ianto tells him, and passes the whiskey bottle.

"I know," says Jack, "But you can't."

"I could."

Jack smiles, because Ianto sounds sincere as a child, insisting that he can do it, he really can. He should get Ianto drunk more often. He stands up, reaching for the stopwatch, and resets it, tosses it to Ianto.

"No," he says, "You couldn't."

He grabs the knife from on top of his desk and Ianto flinches back, sudden fear in his eyes. Jack might be hurt by that reaction but he doesn't have time to think about it, doesn't have time to think about anything, especially not what he's doing now as he pulls his hand up to his throat and slashes the blade across in one quick fluid movement. There is a rush of terror, of course, because there always is, no matter how many times he dies his body and brain always react in the same way, pumping adrenaline into his system, blood rushing faster and that's not much help in this situation, great wet gouts of it spurting from his jugular, flooding his trachea too from the panicked choking feel of it, he can't breathe and he sinks to his knees (no point hitting his head on the desk, too, the rational part of his brain thinks) and then things blur over very quickly and then nothing.

Air rushes into his lungs with an audible _whoomph_ and he sits up, gasping and coughing until he manages to relax his desperate lungs and bring his breathing back to normal. There's blood all over his clothes (he likes that shirt, should've taken it off) and all over the floor, and Ianto is sitting at his desk watching him with a sort of frantic calmness, absolutely still but quivering with nervous energy, and Jack can tell he's barely keeping himself under control. He stands up, a little shakily, and leans against the desk.

"How long was I gone for?" he asks. His voice is scratchy; he brings a hand up to rub at his throat, where there's not even a hint of scarring. Ianto looks slowly down at the stopwatch, still cradled in his hand.

"Four and a half minutes, give or take. Sir," he adds, voice hollow with shock. Jack feels light headed and disturbingly sober; the first will pass, but the second?

"I need another drink."

4.

"Hit me."

Ianto looks startled, but then he still seems a little shaken by Jack's demonstration, and is resolutely refusing to look at the blood on the floor.

"I'm sorry?"

"Hit me," Jack repeats. "It might make you feel better."

"Sir, I don't think that's a very - "

"Go on, you know you want to."

"No, I - "

"A while ago you wanted to kill me, and now you won't hit me? Come on - as hard as you want, for as long as you want, and no retaliation. Trust me, I can take it."

He grins in what should be a disarming manner, but the blood-soaked shirt probably doesn't contribute much to the effect. Ianto is just looking at him, face tight with emotion.

"Why are you doing this?" he asks, quiet and furiously angry.

"I just - " Jack shrugs. "I think you need to. You're angry at me. You need to take your anger out on me, not on yourself."

Ianto stares at him for what seems a long, long time. Finally he nods, seeming to come to some sort of internal accord.

"All right," he says flatly. "But you'll have to tell me when to stop." He hands Jack the stopwatch. "Two minutes, all right? After that, you stop me."

"Sure," says Jack, and wonders if he chose the time frame deliberately. Two minutes: the length of time to bring someone back from the dead, someone you love. He raises the watch to eye level, presses down the button, and then Ianto hits him.

It's not so bad. Jack has had worse, has deserved worse, and frankly he thinks he's getting off light now. His jaw aches, his lip is split and his midsection will have a nice collection of bruises by tomorrow, but none of that is nearly as bad as the way Ianto sobs and screams, so crippled with grief and blind rage that half his blows barely connect. But he needs this. This isn't the end, this isn't how things get forgiven and forgotten, but it's better than what was there before.

Jack reels back from a glancing blow, looks down at the stopwatch in his hand. Two minutes has come and gone, but that doesn't matter. He tosses the stopwatch away.

5.

It's funny, how the most powerful emotions always leave you feeling the most empty. Anger and fear and sorrow eat away, swell up and consume you entirely, but once they're released in all their ferocity, they slip away and leave a hollow place behind. Not for long, not always: if they run deep and strong enough they soon return, devour you again from the inside out, but for a time they're simply gone. And there's nothing left in their place.

Jack sits on the floor with his back against the desk, well away from the puddle of congealing blood. Ianto, face tear streaked, knuckles bruised, is sitting beside him, looking at nothing in particular, shoulder leaned against Jack's in a gesture of intimacy that might seem odd to anyone who doesn't understand how it feels, to be utterly drained of emotion. Jack carefully probes at his jaw with his fingertips; it's starting to swell. He takes a pull from a nearly-empty bottle of scotch, and shakes it at Ianto.

"Drink?" he offers, but Ianto doesn't respond. Jack shrugs, a little stiffly.

"Ah well, more for me, then."

"How can you do it?" Ianto asks suddenly.

"Do what?" Jack wonders, and really, there's so much to choose from. Kill a friend; kill a man's girlfriend in front of him; put a gun to his head and know you can pull the trigger; live with this knowledge, immortal with no hope of parole, and never ever forget.

"All of it," Ianto sweeps a hand in an all-encompassing gesture. "How do you manage to get out of bed in the mornings?"

"Well, as a general rule I try to avoid sleeping."

"But how do you - " Ianto shifts against his shoulder, and Jack turns his head to find Ianto looking at him, a desperate need to _know_ in his eyes. "How do you _live_?"

Jack smiles, can feel it twisting and is powerless to help it.

"I don't have much choice," he says, "So I just do. Day by day."

"Day by day," Ianto echoes, his voice sounding very far away. And the thing about powerful emotions, Jack realises, is that when they go - however briefly - when they drain away and leave you with a great, gaping emptiness, a person will do anything to fill that hollow for a while, in any way they can. That at least, he thinks, he can help with. He lets himself lean forward, and Ianto's eyes are fixed on his, steady and expectant, and in the instant before his own eyes close Jack is pleased to see no hatred there, not right now.

He presses his mouth to Ianto's, and Ianto's hand comes up to grasp at his shoulder, and somewhere the stopwatch ticks on, forgotten.


End file.
